


Improved With Age

by Inell



Series: 2017 Prompt Challenge [25]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Do Not Believe They Are Accurate, Doctor Jackson Whittemore, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, It's a Romantic Little Fic, M/M, Medical Facts Via Google and Personal Experience, Mention of Domestic Violence, Minor Injuries, Not a Medical Textbook, Police Officer Stiles Stilinski, Reunions, Romance, You Can't Read This and Go Be a Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9421910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: Jackson is working a Saturday night in the ED when a drug bust gone bad brings a familiar face into his exam room





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: Jackson/Stiles - Hi, I know it’s been ten years since we graduated high school and we haven’t seen each other, but do you remember how we got schoolyard married in third grade? Yeah. Me too.
> 
> Nonnie! I had so much fun writing this fic! I really hope you enjoy it. Fic #25 in my 2017 Prompt Challenge.

The Emergency Department at Zuckerberg is packed on this particular Saturday night. There’s been a five car pile-up on the 280, a minor fire at a night club in the Castro that resulted in smoke inhalation, and the usual bar fights and shootings that tend to happen on weekends when people have the time to get liquored up without worrying about work the next morning. It’s chaotic at any given time, but especially weekend nights.

Which is the main reason Jackson _loves_ working weekend overnight shifts. Since he started his Emergency residency a little over two years ago, he’s taken to it like a fish to water. The General has the only level one trauma center in the Bay area, too, which means they get all the major cases. He’s been able to learn so much, and he’s becoming a shining star in the residency program. Shiny enough that he’s already been approached about possibly remaining when his residency ends next year.

The General is a county hospital, so the funding isn’t all that great, and he could make a lot more money going to some private hospital that caters to insurance companies and rips off patients, but Jackson isn’t working his ass off to be the best emergency doctor possible to kiss a bunch of rich ass and drive a Porsche. He already _has_ a Porsche, and a trust fund that makes work optional, so he totally plans to accept an offer if it comes his way once he’s finished with his program.

The young woman in room 12 has a terrible cut on her face and a broken arm that she’s telling him she got from tripping down the stairs. Jackson lets her keep weaving the story, knowing it’s a bunch of lies because he can hear her heartbeat skip, and he can smell the fear and shame on her when the boyfriend touches her shoulder and comments about how clumsy she always is. This is the worst part of his job, without a doubt. Having the senses to know when people are full of shit and having to remain professional by not calling them out on it.

When he finishes up with the stitches, he stands up and offers his Caring Smile™, the one he’s perfected during medical school to make patients feel at ease and safe in his hands. It works on Ashley, because he can hear her heartbeat starting to calm down. “We’re going to get you into x-ray as soon as possible to check on that arm. You just sit tight, and I’ll have Nurse Stephens take care of you.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ashley says, glancing at the boyfriend cautiously.

Fuck it.

“I’m going to have a brief chat with Robbie about ways he can help during your recovery,” he adds, putting his hand on Robbie’s shoulder and squeezing enough to make him whimper. Jackson leads the guy outside of the room without loosening his grip. “I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, Robbie. If Ashley has any future ‘clumsy’ experiences, you’re going to receive a visit from me.” He adds a little more pressure while smiling his Charming Smile™ at a couple of patients walking by. He looks at Robbie and lets his eyes flash blue once, satisfied when he smells the fear and anxiety wafting from the guy.

“What are you?” Robbie whispers, shaking slightly beneath Jackson’s grip.

“Your worst nightmare,” Jackson deadpans, arching a brow and smirking. “Now run along and play nice or you might get a personal visit to the morgue. Understood?”

“Understood, Doctor.” Robbie backs away and hurries into the room, and Jackson can hear him apologizing for losing his temper, promising never to do it again.

He sighs because he knows it isn’t enough, not to end a cycle of violence that goes beyond this particular trip to the ED, but at least he tried. Sure, Robbie’s heart didn’t skip when he said it now, but Jackson’s seen it all before. She’ll be back, but maybe she’ll eventually get to a point where she has the resources and support to leave. Some of his patients in similar situations over the years of his residency have reached that point, so it’s possible.

“Whittemore, we’ve got SFPD in route,” Hawkins yells, snapping Jackson to attention. “Shooting with multiple officers down. Get Sanders and go.”

“Fuck,” Jackson mutters, grabbing his stethoscope and running down the hall. Officer down is always serious, especially in the current political climate the country has been in for the last decade. It can also mean a media circus, depending on the circumstances. He finds Sanders in the breakroom sipping coffee. “Get off your lazy ass. We’ve got multiple SFPD in route.”

“My ass isn’t lazy,” Beatrice says, downing the rest of her coffee before throwing the empty cup at Jackson. He catches it easily and tosses it in the trash. “That’s the first time I’ve sat down in nine hours, so suck it, Jacky poo.”

“I haven’t sat down at all in nine hours,” Jackson says, smirking when she punches his arm. “You won’t get resident of the quarter if you’re sipping coffee and eating bon bons while real work needs done, Bea Bea.”

“As if any of us have a chance against Robo-Resident.” She snorts. “You don’t even sleep, do you? They just power you off and store you in the linen closet on three?”

“I know I’m perfect, but you just have to accept that it’s human excellence at work and not robotics.” He blows her a kiss before entering the triage area. Beatrice is his best friend at ZSFG, a resident who started the program at the same time as him, and he actually hangs out with her and her girlfriend after work sometimes.

A quick look at the commotion lets him analyze the situation and determine where he’s needed most. There’s a gunshot wound that Adams is dealing with, but the guy isn’t as good at trauma as Jackson, so that’s where he heads. Adams gives him a quick look of relief before trading out and moving to something more superficial.

“I’m Doctor Whittemore, and we’re going to take excellent care of you today,” Jackson says smoothly, studying the wound before glancing up to flash his Caring Smile™. When he finds himself looking into familiar brown eyes that look a little bit like dark honey, his smile slips. He hasn’t seen those eyes in ten years, but he recognizes them instantly. The moles, the eyes, the lips…fuck. “Stiles?”

“Jackson?” Stiles winces, and Jackson realizes he’s putting too much pressure on the gunshot wound. He’s pale, lost too much blood if the soaked uniform is any indication, and his skin is a little clammy to the touch, but Jackson can hear a strong heartbeat and, hell, he knows Stiles. The guy’s a survivor and always has been.

“What happened?” Jackson asks, pushing away memories of Beacon Hills and the last awkward semester of high school that he’d attended after spending time in London.

“Drug bust gone bad. Someone tipped them off, so they were waiting with fire power.” Stiles is breathing hard, just a little ragged, and Jackson frowns before reaching up to open his shirt uniform shirt. “Oh, hey, you aren’t gonna buy me a drink first? Usually I at least get dinner before I get naked.”

“Did you tell Doctor Adams about the knife wound, Officer?” Jackson had smelled the fresh blood that hadn’t been sticky in the gunshot wound. “You’re impeding your care if you aren’t honest and forthright with medical staff.”

“I didn’t realize.” Stiles stares down at his torso, watching Jackson clean up a knife wound that cut a three inch gap into his ribs. “I just thought the asshole got lucky with a punch and maybe broke one.”

“A broken rib would _also_ be something your doctor would need to know about, dumbass,” Jackson mutters, getting the wound cleaned and then checking it. It’s deeper than he likes, but it didn’t cut any major organs, so it could have been worse.

“Such an excellent bedside manner, _Doctor_.” Stiles’ grin is more of a grimace when Jackson glances up at him.

“This is going to need stiches, and I want to run you through radiology to confirm nothing vital was hit by the blade.” Jackson turns his attention to the gunshot wound in Stiles’ arm. “How did you get shot in the arm? Were they that bad of a shot?”

“Nice sentiment there, asshole. What? You want them to hit the bullseye when that’d be my head?” Stiles shifts on the bed and exhales slowly when Jackson searches the wound in his bicep for a bullet. “I actually shoved another officer out of the way and got clipped while saving his life. You know me and that self-sacrificing thing. Hasn’t gotten any better since joining the force.”

“It’s not a through and through but I don’t see a bullet.” Jackson frowns at Stiles, who avoids looking at him. He reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose before remembering he’s wearing bloody gloves. “Where is the bullet?”

“In my pocket,” Stiles mumbles. “I wanted to run some tests, make sure it was all human and nothing supernatural, just in case. I mean, you know what Mad Eye always says.”

“Constant Vigilance,” Jackson finishes, arching a brow when Stiles gapes at him. “What? I _do_ know how to read. Anyway, I see that your paranoia hasn’t improved with age, either.”

“Either? What else hasn’t improved with age?” Stiles hmphs. “I’m not the same gawky teenager anymore, Jackson.”

Jackson rolls his eyes but, unconsciously, he looks Stiles’ over in a decidedly unprofessional manner. He _has_ changed, grown into himself, filling out broad shoulders and a tapered waist and just enough muscle to indicate a job that can be physical that results in gym visits a few hours a week. The idea of _Stiles_ having a six pack is foreign and unusual, even though Jackson’s staring at it and recently had his hands right there. He blinks when he realizes he’s staring, narrowing his eyes when he sees Stiles giving him a grin that would be appropriate beside the definition of ‘shit eating’.

“Does this hurt?” Jackson asks sweetly, poking his fingers into the gunshot wound. Stiles winces, and he feels a little guilty for taking out his own slip on the source that caused it. “You lost more blood that I’m comfortable with, but your vitals seem good, and no major organs have been hit. I’m going to order x-rays of the abdomen and arm to make sure there isn’t any damage internally, but I think we’re dealing with tissue damage and potentially muscle damage in your arm.”

“You really know this shit, don’t you?” Stiles blinks up at him, and Jackson can feel his jaw tense at the tone of disbelief in his voice.

“I’m a doctor, Stiles. I went to school for more years than I care to remember to earn that title, and I’m finishing my last year of residency next year. So, yes, I do _know this shit_.”

“Hey, don’t get all sassy. I’m just surprised. I didn’t ever think about you becoming a doctor, like saving people and stuff. Figured you’d become a lawyer or a businessman,” Stiles says, raking his hands through his thick hair, mussing it up in a way that makes Jackson think about entirely inappropriate things for the workplace.

“A money hungry leech, you mean?” Jackson arches a brow before he focuses back on doing basic wound care. “I had enough blood on my hands after sophomore year that I felt it was only appropriate for me to try saving lives instead of taking them.”

“Dude, that wasn’t you. No more than the blood on my hands from, uh, you know, was my fault.” Stiles’ color is starting to return, and Jackson listens to his heart as he stares at the vitals monitor. “I’ve got blood on my hands from self-defense and stuff, but neither of us is responsible for what our bodies were used for without our consent.”

“Oh really?” Jackson looks into his eyes. “You don’t have nightmares then? Don’t wonder if you were possessed because you were weak and easy? Don’t feel responsibility for everyone who died at your hands?” He scoffs, knowing the answer based on the way Stiles gulps and the scent of guilt that’s sour in the air. “That’s what I thought. Save the lectures for your little pack members who buy that bullshit you’re trying to sell.”

“Fuck you.” Stiles scowls at him. “I was trying to help. You shouldn’t feel guilty any more than I should. You’re good at this doctoring thing, from what I can tell, and it shouldn’t be connected in your mind with what Matt made you do.”

“I’m going to go check with Nurse Davis to see how long the wait is for radiology,” Jackson tells him, standing up and removing his gloves. He puts them in the bio-hazard container before getting the alcohol sanitizer in his palm as he leaves Stiles staring after him with a half-open mouth.

Jackson does check with Molly about radiology before he goes to the bathroom. He pisses and washes his hand then just stares in the mirror, noticing the circles under his eyes and the way his skin is a little too tight across his cheekbones. He gets so busy working that he forgets to eat sometimes, and he can’t remember the last time he truly took a day off because he spends his time research case studies and volunteering at a kid’s home when he isn’t at the hospital.

After splashing some water on his face, he dries his hands and stalks down the corridor with his Stay Out of My Way™ glare on his face. He steps into room sixteen, and Stiles looks up at him. “You can’t just come in here and _care_ , Stiles. Our friendship ended when we were ten, and you started spending all of your free time with McCall.”

“I think maybe we got this started on the wrong foot,” Stiles suggests, wincing as his movement tugs on the bandages that Jackson applied to his ribs. He wants to stitch up the cut so it can hopefully heal without leaving a scar, but he doesn’t want to stitch until he’s sure there’s no lasting damage.

“I’m not sure about that. What other foot is there to get started on?” Jackson asks, putting on a fresh pair of gloves and walking over to check the bandage he applied to the gunshot wound.

“How about, uh, this one?” Stiles clears his throat and looks up at Jackson from beneath his lashes. “Hi, I know it’s been ten years since we graduated high school and we haven’t seen each other, but do you remember how we got schoolyard married in third grade? Yeah. Me too.”

Jackson stares at him for a moment, aware that his eyes have widened and that his mouth is hanging open. He closes his mouth and blinks at Stiles, who is biting his lip and staring back. “Seriously? _That’s_ the foot you wanted to start on?” His lips quirk and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“Well, I mean, I could have gone for ‘what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this’, but it’s cliché and, hello, doctor’s coat sort of answers that.” Stiles gives him that crooked little half smile that Jackson used to live to see because it’s the real smile, the sincere one, and he was a greedy kid who liked that Stiles only showed it to him.

“I do happen to remember that,” Jackson admits, ducking his head and focusing on his job, since that’s what he’s getting paid for. Not for—is it flirting? He’s not really sure—talking with an old friend slash enemy slash frenemy. “Danny constantly likes to remind me about my big gay marriage before it was legal whenever he feels I say something questionable or possibly homophobic. He says it doesn’t matter if I’m bi, that I can still be a stereotyping asshole sometimes.”

“Yeah, I guess it wasn’t legal back then, was it?” Stiles is drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh, and Jackson can’t quite place the scent in the air. “How is Danny? He sorta disappeared, and I never figured out where he went.”

“He got out of Beacon Hills because of the supernatural crazy.” Jackson’s pager goes off, and he checks the message. “Looks like you’re next up for radiology. Once we get the films back, we’ll get you stitched up and back on the street.”

“Oh. That’s quick.” Stiles frowns. “It’s not because I’m a cop, is it? I don’t want to like get preferential treatment or anything.”

“It’s based on severity, not profession. We can’t proceed with your plan of care until we can confirm there’s no internal injuries. The risk of internal injuries places you higher on the list.” Jackson looks at Stiles for a moment, before he sighs. “Do you need me to call anyone for you? A spouse? Significant other? Alpha?”

“Nah. Scott’s in Beacon Hills, and this is nothing compared to some of the stuff I’ve dealt with in the past.” Stiles arches a brow and smiles slightly. “No spouse or significant other in the picture. I’ve been single for about two years, since my last boyfriend left me because he hated my job.”

“He doesn’t sound like a very supportive boyfriend,” Jackson says, having heard something similar from a girl he dated back in college who resented the amount of time med school took. He hasn’t bothered dating since then because he can find casual sex if he has the urge and relationships are messy. Complicated. He looks at Stiles’ hands, staring at his long fingers, then glances up at that pretty mouth he spent more time thinking about in high school than he cares to admit. “You’re wrong.”

“What?” Stiles looks confused. “About what?”

“You do have a spouse.” Jackson arches a brow and flashes his I’m Sexy and I Know It smirk™ that never fails him if he’s trying to get laid. “I don’t recall ever getting divorced. Do you?”

“It wasn’t legal and binding, asshole,” Stiles mutters, a splotch of color reddening his neck and cheeks. “And stop with the smirk. You’re not trying to pick me up; I know better.”

“It was binding per schoolyard law.” Jackson shrugs a shoulder as he takes off his gloves. He studies his cuticles, wincing when he sees how terrible they look since he skipped his last two manicure appointments in order to pick up extra shifts. “Obviously, I’m willing to discuss the matter and negotiate a solution to our matrimonial dilemma. I’m not _unreasonable_ , after all.”

“Wait. Dude. _Are_ you trying to pick me up?” Stiles gapes at him. Jackson sniffs and rolls his eyes, which makes Stiles grin. “You are. Holy shit. This is like something out of a soap opera, Jackson. Hot cop gets shot in the line of duty and is picked up by the sexy ER doc who wants to ‘check his vitals’. Huh. Guess that sounds more like a porn than soap opera.”

“I’m not particularly interested in the rating at the moment,” Jackson says, fiddling with his stethoscope as he gives Stiles a slightly annoyed look. “It can always go higher later.”

“Coffee? Or, uh, I might not be able to have any depending on the meds I get because sometimes pain meds and coffee don’t mix so well for me.” Stiles snaps his fingers. “Smoothies? We could totally go for smoothies and, uh, discuss those negotiations, _babycakes_.”

“How about dinner?” Jackson looks into Stiles’ eyes steadily. “After you’re released and have a couple of days to rest and recover, we’ll go to dinner, and we can discuss our marriage, _sweetheart_.”

“Yeah, that sounds weird.” Stiles shakes his head. “I think I’ll just stick with asshole as your pet name.”

“Good. I prefer that to the other alternatives, smartass.” Jackson checks his pager and then smiles at Stiles. No trademark necessary. The real smile that he rarely displays but that Stiles has always had a knack for causing, even after ten years. He feels a little smug when he can smell the low arousal and pride coming from Stiles. “I’m going to let Nurse Davis take you to radiology now. I’ll stop back by once the tests are read, and we’ll get you taken care of.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Stiles puts his hand over the bandage on his ribs. “I’m not glad I got shot, but I _am_ happy I ran into you, Jackson.”

Jackson pauses at the door and looks back at Stiles, lips curving slightly. “Me too. Now try not to get hurt between here and radiology, alright?”

He steps outside into the corridor, grinning when he hears Stiles muttering a protest and cursing at him. He quickly loses the grin, of course, because no one at the General needs to know he’s actually got a weakness in the form of an overactive human who talks too much and fills out that police uniform extremely well. Still, there’s a little bounce in his step when he grabs the chart for Ashley and goes back into her room to explain the healing process of her broken arm. And if he happens to flash his Wolfish and Dangerous™ smile at Robbie, well, there’s no one around to prove it so it obviously didn’t happen.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://inell.tumblr.com)


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